


something burning on my chest

by crookedspoon



Series: nothing more than any artists dreams [3]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Anxiety, Cute Ending, D/s elements, Hangover, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jealousy, M/M, POV Prokopenko, POV Second Person, Self-Esteem Issues, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-23 14:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11404449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: In which Proko is hungover and having a full-on angstfest before K wakes up and defuses it by being a dick.





	something burning on my chest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jbird181](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jbird181/gifts).



> Written for the prompts "slip", "scrape" and the kink "jealousy" with a hint of "masquerade" for rounds-of-kink's [Summer mini round](http://rounds-of-kink.livejournal.com/799136.html) and "Sharing a Bed" at tropebingo round 2.
> 
> I started this back in May and only picked it back up because I needed something to post on the 4th, and starting something new was a no-go. I probably shouldn't be posting this right now, because it might not make sense as a whole, but well.
> 
> Jay, the beginning of this is what I wrote for the "dress" prompt, but I couldn't make both ideas work, so I'll try it again and in the meantime you get this, because I already mentioned it to you. :)

The world is a turntable, endlessly spinning.

You're lying on your back, foot dangling off the mattress, hoping against hope it would pull the brakes on this goddamn carousel. It's like you're out at sea, pulled this way and that by the billowing waves. 

Okay, better not think of waves. Your stomach is already churning like a Dutch milkmaid making butter.

Beside you, Kavinsky is snoring softly. 

This very fact, of Kavinsky catching some Zs, is the only reason this whole ordeal is worthwhile. He's been nearly killing himself over his latest commission, barely eating, sleeping, or taking a break at all, regardless of how often you suggested it. You don't usually meddle with his creative moods, but you can only stand by and watch K destroy himself slowly for so long before you have to take action.

You might as well not have existed for all the attention K paid you, which was none at all; maybe an annoyed side-eye here or there when you insisted on shoving some food down his throat.

He might think he's doing something heroic, being a martyr for his art or some shit. Self-sacrifice and everything. Fucking idiot. It's not even his style. 

If he has to go out, it should be in grand style, under the eyes of many, not hidden away in his own workshop. That just seems like a waste. Not that you want him to go out with a bang and leave you anytime soon. Or at all, for that matter. But these morbid thoughts have a way of creeping up on you. He encourages them.

Your fingers steal across the mattress in search of skin. You find it warm and sticky with sweat. You'd never have thought how soothing it is to listen to him breathe. A goddamn luxury.

As perceptive as he is, you're almost certain he has no idea about how much you _care,_ deciding instead to dismiss you as background noise. Or if he does – which you doubt, because if you've learned one thing in all these years, it's that K is an actor beyond measure when he wants to be, which is every time people are around – he's making a point of pushing you away.

Good luck with that. You've been in this for way too long and way too deep to be backing out anytime soon. What would you be doing with your goddamn life if K were not in it? Fuck, the mere thought of it makes you sick, because what life _could_ there be without K? 

None worth living.

Shit. You hate being hungover. Too much time to be investigating every stupid decision ever, and too sick to be distracting yourself from the same. With K out of the picture for now, you have no one but your own demons in your ear. They are vicious creatures, as you'd expect, meaner than anything K can throw your way, no matter how hard he tries.

You ball your fists in the blanket and exhale slowly. You hate the feeling of misery creeping up over your skin, coating your face and the inside of your mouth, suffocating you, dragging you down to the ocean depths, darkness and pressure caving in on you. 

This is why you drink, to escape the misery, the blackness, the insurmountable sadness of being. (Also because you kind of hate parties, and getting shit-faced is about the only way to handle them, because you can't just leave and be a spoilsport.) Alcohol transforms you into your lighter self, if only for a while, like you'd turn back into a pumpkin if you didn't make it home on time, but you push it, you push it every time, because Kavinsky makes crashing okay, makes being miserable okay, simply by being around, by laughing, by talking too much too fast and taking up all of your brainspace.

You should hate it, this addiction, K-shaped as it is, but you cannot imagine a universe in which you'd reject him, ever. You're too pathetic, too willing to stoop and let him walk all over you. 

It hurts. It sickens you. It makes you weak.

K can't abide weakness, but you wonder if being weak for him would be the exception. You can't help it. You've pledged your heart to him the very first time he caught your eye in arts class during your freshmen year. (Okay, maybe not the very first moment, but after some time, when you noticed he doesn't just talk big, he actually delivers.) He'd drawn attention to himself like an open fire, like he belongs at the center of the spotlight, admired by girls and boys alike, and of course your immunity to his charm was nonexistent. You wanted him to notice you, you wanted to be close to him, you wanted to share your love for art with him. And guess what? It all came true. No lie, Kavinsky actually noticed a nobody like you who'd been tripping over himself trying to gain his approval.

Sometimes you wonder what he saw in you. A plaything? an art project? an unquestioning lackey who'd do anything for him? Certainly not a sycophant, he had enough of those already. And you do pride yourself on your ability to call K out on his bullshit, even if it took some time to get there, unlike Jiang or Swan, who trashed his work the first time they looked at it, irreverent jackasses that they are.

(You admire them for it.)

Most of the time, what he saw in you doesn't matter anymore. You try not to dwell on reasons, but instead focus on outcomes. There are many: you have people you hang out with, who accepted you despite the nervous wreck that you were in the beginning; you have access to drugs that make you a wreck of a different order, and sometimes change is a good thing, or if not good, at least a welcome thing, because it gives you a break from the shit you've been dealing with, even if it hurls you into new shit to deal with. Speaking of, you have a sometimes-boyfriend or however you want to qualify your relationship with K ("it's complicated" comes to mind, even if that's nowhere near half of it) who has introduced you to the concept of being present and calm in your own body, even if it's likely he had no idea he's been doing it. 

It's far from perfect, but it was a nice change of pace, so you don't complain. 

Blindly, you search for the vodka bottle you've filled with tap water sometime during the morning, when you were parched like a dry sponge, dying for a drink of the non-alcoholic kind. There were none within easy reach, especially as you were within K's reach and didn't want to disturb him. Shifting ever so minutely closer to the edge of the bed, you peeled yourself from under K's arm. Kavinsky is a light sleeper with ears like parabolas, if he sleeps at all. It's not uncommon for something as insignificant as the ticking of a cooling television set to startle him awake. Surely the jostling would wake him too.

Lucky for you, he merely huffed once and turned around.

Half-swaying, half-stumbling, you picked your way over bottles, clothes, and paper cups, and somehow made it to the sink in the bathroom without stubbing your toes. Your mirror image is a ghastly sight, all sunken cheeks and hollow eyes, but that's nothing out of the ordinary. You may be an ugly piece of shit, but you're in good company. None of your friends are what you could call objectively beautiful. It seems to be K's aesthetic: wiry, fucked up, and ugly as sin. There are exceptions, of course, but overall it helps to make you feel less inadequate. Otherwise you'd be torturing yourself wondering how K can stand to look at you.

You splash your face, scrubbing the self-pity from your mind, and gulp down cold water straight from the tap. As a precaution, you fill an empty vodka bottle and you plod back to bed. But sleep won't take hold of you again. Your heart is racing, Kavinsky has drooled on your pillow, and the apartment with its large windows is already heating up like the inside of a crock pot.

You're sweating through the sheets. Maybe you should have thrown up, to get rid of all the toxic waste that's making you sick right now.

There's no getting rid of the toxic thoughts that are swirling through your head, though. Not unless you wanted to resort to alcohol again, which, thanks, but no thanks. You'll just have to find another way of not remembering K slipping in and out of the crowds, laughing, slapping backs, passing around red paper cups, being the life of the goddamn party. But it's not that, not really, although you might have preferred to celebrate in a smaller circle, or to have some time alone with K that doesn't involve getting him to eat or drink or take a break.

It's when he lavished his attention on every pretty girl who came to his party, to ply them with drinks, to dance with them, to make out with them, to eventually vanish into a dark room with them.

So much for sometimes-boyfriend. This is the sometimes part, because you've never discussed the other. It only exists in your head, because fuck, how could it not after everything you let him do to you? As much as you value being close to him, you can't deny him the freedom he thrives on.

Skov had jostled you with his shoulder or snapped his fingers in front of your face on several occasions, trying to divert your attention to anything that was not K-related, although good luck with that when you're in his place. You'd probably have to move states if you wanted to escape K's influence. 

Occasionally, Jiang had refilled your drinks when he wasn't busy observing the other party-goers and making derisive comments about them. That at least cheered you up a little. He tried to outdo Skov when it came to slamming the musical choices you were bombarded with. Counter to tradition, Swan had snatched Skov's place as DJ, which explained why the music was shit.

You shared good laughs with them, but their presence couldn't soothe the gnawing ache inside you for long.

You don't understand why K is like that: chasing skirts when you're _right there,_ when you have been right there every step of the way, weathering every one of his moods, putting up with him ignoring you for days on end, and dealing with how his behavior exacerbates your anxiety on top of it all.

Desperately, you've been holding onto the idea that K would be making up for lost time once he'd finished his commission. Once he was done, he'd pay attention to you again. Right?

Guess what? Joke's on you. Kavinsky is probably sick of you already, the way you're clinging to him like a leech, clucking like a mother hen and getting in the way of his fun, so is it any surprise he wants to unwind with someone different when he gets the chance? You're an old hat, Proko, you don't excite K anymore. The novelty of being allowed to treat you like a doormat has worn off. Now you're just a nuisance.

Fuck, there it is again, the old self-deprecation you still haven't grown out of. It's what happens when K doesn't take your mind off it for some time. He knows how to pick you up, but he also knows how to pick you clean.

Sometimes, you feel taken hostage. By your fears, by Kavinsky's whims, but also by your own desires. Fuck.

Look at you. That you could ever think he'd prefer an ugly-ass motherfucker who, on bad days, can't even go the mall by himself to those gorgeous ladies who have too much self-respect to be throwing themselves at his feet but not enough to refuse him entirely if he sweet-talks them enough.

Why wouldn't he? You're baggage. You weigh him down. You're a failure who cannot even stand on their own two feet.

God, the worst thing is that, yes, you want everything for K, whatever it takes to make him happy, because that's so rare these days, unless he's helping himself out with mood-enhancers, no, the worst thing is that you'd happily play his wingman to up his chances with the ladies – as if he needed _you_ for that, really – all the while hoping he'd just abandon his endeavor and drag you home instead, because sometimes, part of you doesn't want to see him with anyone else, refuses to in fact, and you'd throw his ass to the ground before he'd have the chance to walk out the door, and he'd laugh at you, loving this aggressive side of you, but loving to subdue it even more, because you're weak, and you're easy, and you'd do anything to please him, especially after this tough time you've both been having. None of these floozies K has been making out with know anything about him or the shit he's been through, none of them have been by his side when he needed it but couldn't accept it, when the pressure was all too much and the drugs just not enough, none of them had to find him passed out in a pool of turpentine with a soggy box of matches in his hand, had shove down their panic and wonder if they were too late, none of them had to talk him down from threatening both you and himself with a carving knife, none of them had to suck it up and bear the bruises on their throat and hips, that hurt every time they swallowed or sat down because K wouldn't – _couldn't_ – hold back.

Not a single one of them would like the version of K you got to see.

And yeah, maybe you're in love with a psychopath, a broken shitbag who only plays with you because you're there, because you're convenient, and because he's got nothing better to do, but he's _your_ shitbag and you'd defend him with your last breath.

You probably wouldn't even care so much if it all had been deliberate, if he had told you he was going to ignore you and have his fun with someone else, just to fuck with you, to make you need him more, because you're a fucked up little shit who gets off on mind games, but as it is you're just seething with jealousy and hating yourself for it, because what right have you got to be jealous? K is not yours to keep.

You're a lovesick loser, Proko, you're pathetic, you're not even worth the dirt under his soles, you're an abomination, you're—

Kavinsky inhales deeply, as if the loudness of your thoughts disturbed his sleep.

All at once, you push the rat tail of poisonous thoughts from the forefront of your mind. It takes effort to suppress them, but you have something better to focus on now.

You're very still and try to even out your breathing, as if you fear any movement from you could set off one of Kavinsky's lesser moods.

You start as if you've been zapped when he pulls you in, and your stomach protests. You want to say something but before you have the chance to, his fingers run over your back, scratching it lightly. You melt into him and it's ridiculous how sensitive you are.

He says nothing, just keeps stroking your back and staring straight up at the ceiling, like he's not even aware you're here. It's nothing you think about at first, trapped in the otherwordly bliss of back scratches as you are, but it chips away at you steadily. Would he be doing the same if you were someone else?

An awkward sound escapes your throat as his fingers steal into your hair. God, you're so easy. You need nothing more than his touch to be enthralled again. 

You allow yourself to enjoy this for another minute or five or twenty.

Kavinsky is eerily quiet. Even when he's sleeping he makes more noise than this. You nudge his head with yours.

"Hey," you rasp, your throat burnt raw from the alcohol and the cigarettes from the night before.

His eyes unglue from the ceiling and settle on yours. They're dull and lifeless, void of expression.

You exhale across his cheek, suddenly as tired as he looks. It's one of _those_ moods. Not his most dangerous one, but if you don't watch him, he might wallow in his exhaustion and starve himself to death, because getting up is too much trouble. You've been there yourself, you know what finishing a big project can do to you. You usually allow yourself a day or two afterward to let the bleakness catch up with you, sometimes longer.

K, on the other hand, cannot accept that he needs a break to recharge and will push himself to start creating as soon as he can manage to roll out of bed.

At least you're here now, to keep an eye on him.

Ignoring your roiling stomach, you draw yourself up and press a soft kiss to his lips.

"I'm making breakfast," you say, although the mere thought of food upsets you. "Any wishes?"

He makes a faces, indicating that no, he doesn't have any breakfast wishes and would rather you didn't bring up food at all.

"You gotta eat."

He groans and shakes his head lightly.

Unwilling to give up just yet, you grope for the vodka bottle you'd stashed beside the bed and hand it to him.

"Drink something at least."

He rolls his eyes, but at least he accepts the bottle. You can't be sure whether he's grateful or not, but it doesn't matter as long as he sits up and guzzles the water like he thought it was vodka. Who knows, maybe he did.

When he's finished half of it, he throws it on your side of the bed. "You can stop mothering me now."

"If you stop needing it," you say and shrug.

A tired half-smile plays about his lips. "Someone needs to be shown their place again."

He twists your hair around your fist and when he pulls your head back, your eyelids and your chest flutter. You've been waiting for him to show an interest in you again, but you're also developing a headache and you're not exactly sure if K means it or if he's already pushing himself.

"Don't," you say. "Not right now."

Kavinsky arches an eyebrow at you, relaxes his hold only marginally. Part of you wants to roll over and submit, the other part feels too sick to do that.

"I'm serious, K."

"Proko, babe, are you growing a backbone now?" he asks, but releases your hair. It tumbles against your cheek. 

"I'm just not in the mood."

"That's a first."

"It's not. I've been hungover plenty of times before. Come on, don't tell me you're _not_ hungover."

"You just can't handle shit," he says and leans back against the headboard. At least he's talking again. That's the most important thing. You can handle his failed attempt at an insult. He's told you worse and you got off on it.

"You know I can handle whatever you dish out."

He looks down at you, lips slowly forming a grin. "I might need a reminder."

You don't know where it comes from, but a sudden anger flames to life inside you. "Maybe if you hadn't been ignoring me for so long, you wouldn't be needing a reminder."

As soon as you said it, you recognize this anger as something old, something that's been with you for a long time. Something you've been using to beat _yourself_ up with, so you wouldn't throw it into K's face.

Like you just did.

K is unimpressed. "Are we really doing this now?"

"I'm not going anywhere." You cross your arms and settle in for an argument.

But Kavinsky doesn't oblige you. Instead, he curls toward your ear. "Insolent little cunt," he whispers sweetly.

You make a little, desperate noise and fight down the blush that's igniting your cheeks, but too late, he's already noticed. 

"Do you think you can talk to me like that and get away with it?" he continues, an evil grin spreading from ear to ear.

"Fuck you, K. I'm trying to have a conversation here." But heat is already suffusing your body. Whether it's lust or shame is hard to tell these days. Sometimes, there's no difference.

K rolls his eyes. "What's the point, man? Can't change what happened."

"Doesn't mean it didn't happen." You see his point, and you hate that he has one, but your propensity to dwell on the past makes it difficult for you to agree.

"Look, sweetie." He scoots down to lie beside you again and his hands slip beneath your sheets. "Do you want to stay miserable by analyzing the past or do you want to move forward and let me fuck your brains out?"

His fingers find your dick with pinpoint accuracy and you suck in a breath when his rough knuckles scrape against it. Your blood is pounding in your ears, amplifying your headache, but you can't lose the ground you've gained.

You grab his wrist and jerk his hand away.

"If you only want someone to fuck, why don't you go and see if the girls from the party yesterday left you their number?"

You're hitting a brand new low with this remark, sure, but if you thought this would have had any effect on K, you're sorely mistaken. You failed to consider how much he delights in fucking with you.

"You let your hair grow out," he says and flicks a strand.

"What?" You pat down your hair as if that would save it from further scrutiny. It's curling down to your chin now and you rather like the way it hides your ears.

"Makes you look like a fucking girl. And you're already acting like one." His shoulders twitch a shrug and he drapes himself over you, nudging your legs apart with his knees so he can grind your dicks together. "Works for me."

You scowl. How he manages to boost your confidence even while he's insulting you will forever remain a mystery to you. It's hard to stay mad at him. "Sometimes I really hate you, K."

He grins brightly. "Works for me, too."

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Fourth of July" by John Brehm.
> 
> Thanks for reading! As always, I'm on [tumblr](http://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/). :)


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